


when the boss calls

by rosielibrary



Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Mystery Trio
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-04
Updated: 2018-12-04
Packaged: 2019-09-07 00:23:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,315
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16843411
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rosielibrary/pseuds/rosielibrary
Summary: ford seems to need your attention a whole bunch huh. you wonder why, but it's hard to get romantic when you're his assistant in the field.you're damn well gonna try.





	when the boss calls

He calls your name. Again. The last couple times you heard him call for you, you’ve met… interesting propositions, and you don’t expect this one to be any different.

And yet, Stanford Pines shouting for your attention makes you anticipate each time he does.

Ford looks up as you enter his office, narrowly missing a missile of balled-up paper soaring past your head. Stan smirks at you from the corner, balancing on his chair’s back legs with a paddle-ball bouncing in his hand, a casual wink thrown your way. You laugh with a good-natured eye-roll, stepping forward to stand in front of Ford’s desk and asking what you can help him with.

“Ah, yes, you’re here. Good.“

Stan’s _paddle-ball thunk-a thunk-a thunk-a’s_ behind you as Ford gathers a stack of papers together, nudging his glasses along the bridge of his aquiline nose.

“I told Stanley earlier— I hired you a few months ago, yet never got any sort of health records.”

Oh, oops. You’re fairly certain you have some paperwork at home you can show him, but Ford waves a hand, dismissing it.

“It’s alright, no harm done. I figure I can do an exam here— if you don’t mind. There won’t be anything too extreme, just a few general things to make sure of your… Health.”

Stan snorts behind you, the front legs of his chair hitting the floor. Ford rolls his eyes, but quickly scoops up a clipboard and pen for this… examination, and he pulls another chair forward, gestures for you to sit.

“It’s just a typical doctor’s exam,” he reassures. “Nothing too— too in-depth.”

You shrug, telling him there’s no problem. After all, you really did forget to give him the medical paperwork way back when you started in as his second field assistant. Ford nods, then shakes his head, seemingly lost on what his answer should be.

“Ah, really, don’t worry about it. I can knock it out now and we can move on.”

You ask what would happen if you _did_ happen to have some wild disease or problem.

“— Oh, you’ve been here a while. I wouldn’t fire you.”

Then… why do the exam if he wouldn’t take it into account?

“Yeah, Sixer,” Stan adds, struggling not to laugh. “Why even do it if they’re gonna stay anyway? Seems kinda— what’s the word— _irrelevant._ ”

Ford’s head shoots up and he stares at you, opening and closing his mouth like a goldfish.

“J-Just in case! There’s! Some sort of ailment we have to tackle to keep your work performance as smooth and reliable as it is. Yes.”

You laugh, telling Ford he’d better do it quick so you can get back to being “smooth and reliable” — a compliment not missed, and you pretend your heart doesn’t flip in your chest. Stan clicks his tongue, turning his attention back to his paddle-ball.

From the bookshelf next to his desk Ford digs out a first-aid kit and some other “supplies”. You’ve no idea what to expect from him at this except for the regular doctor’s appointment checklist, so you get comfy in the chair while Ford flips to an empty notebook page to “write results down”.

As you expected (and almost hoped), Ford really _does_ go through the steps of a doctor’s appointment. Where on earth he got all this equipment you don’t dare to ask, but as he peers inside your ears and down your throat you feel as nervous as you would at an actual doctor’s.

Well, he is a doctor. Technically. Just of one specific science.

He shifts to be in front of you and kneels, swapping tools for a small, thin torch. You follow his motion; notice how he falters for a moment before gently taking your chin between forefinger and thumb and tilting your head down to his level. You blink at him, feeling goosebumps raise on your arms beneath you lab-coat.

“Can you look left for me?”

You do and he shines the flashlight in each eye, squinting as your pupils constrict against the harsh bright. By instinct you wince a little, and Ford pulls the torch away for a moment, leaning closer to examine with a worried furrow in his brow.

“Is it too bright? Am I too close?”

He is fairly close— you catch your reflection in his glasses as he searches your face. You shrink a little under his gaze; he’s got such expressive eyes, it’s hard not to try to decipher the thoughts behind them, warm and brown and intently focused on yours.

You tell him you’re fine— or, you’re “f-fine”. Stuttering? Where did that come from? Ford notices because _of course_ he notices, and you know it’s not the heat of the flashlight that makes his cheeks go pink. He stares at you for a long moment, lost in thought, before he blinks and almost yanks the flashlight from your face.

“Well, uh, that’s— done now.” He clicks the flashlight off in the pause and replaces it in the box. “Just one thing, and then we’re done here.”

Ford pulls out a stethoscope.

Stan exhales with a whistle, standing up.

“Alright, alright. I’ll get outta your hair, jeez.” He grins mischievously before heading out the door, muttering something to Ford and causing a _very_ scandalized expression to take his brother’s features.

He plugs both ears in and gently rests the bell on your chest, listening intently. You breathe deeply and pray he doesn’t catch how your pulse noticeably quickens as he leans closer to you, but he’s focused on the task at hand, thankfully. Good old Ford. Besides, you’re pretty certain he’d never notice— he’s far too work-oriented to think of stuff like that. Besides, you’re definitely not thinking about how he’s around four inches from your face and his hair looks soft and wow his chest is more broad than you remember—

“Your heartbeat is really… erratic. Are you alright?”

You look up at Ford, wide-eyed, and make a terrible excuse about having high blood pressure. Maybe you do have high blood pressure, you can’t remember your last doctor’s visit. All you know is that this doctor is very close and staring at you with such an intimidating focus that you force yourself to stare back until you both look away.

“Oh— Well, try and, uh, cut back on caffeine and salt, then. Hypocritical of me to say to stay away from coffee, but—“

You laugh, smiling up at Ford and effectively dissolving the heavy tension in the room. He chuckles, writing something on his clipboard before taking the stethoscope out, putting it back in his “doctor’s kit”.

“Well, apart from that, you’re good to go. Thank you for giving me your time to get this fixed.” Ford nods and you stand, heading out the door— but not before turning back and asking when you’d get the results back from your “exam”.

“Oh, of course— within a few, uh, days. Probably.”

You thank him and leave, going to make your way back to the living room, but Stan stops you in the hallway, a wide smirk tugging at his lips.

“How’d your “tests” go? Doc Sixer didn’t give ya too hard of a time, did he?”

You snort and tell him no, it was relatively easy. Stan quirks a brow and sidles past you, going into Ford’s office— and you hear him ask “How’d they take the doctor roleplay bit?” before having to dash down the hall, making sure Ford didn’t hear you laugh outside.

— — — — —

The next time Ford calls, you’re chatting with Fiddleford over tea— as you did, actually, take Ford’s advice about coffee. Just in case. Fiddleford’s ears prick up when you hear Ford’s voice, and he turns to you, surprise written over his features.

“Wonder what he needs this time outta ya,” he jokes, folding the newspaper atop the table and following you out. You mention the last time he very specifically asked for you; Fiddleford laughs with a suspiciously knowing nod.

“Stanley told me ‘bout it. Wonder why he never asked for our medical records.”

Now _that’s_ news. You turn to Fiddleford in the hall with an incredulous expression and he only shrugs, the picture of innocence, before passing by you. Why didn’t Ford—? You decide to grill Stan about it later, heading into the room a few doors over with Ford and Fiddleford (it can’t be coincidence that their names are so alike).

Ford turns around as you shut the door behind you, grinning with that “I’ve got amazing news” face.

“I’ve got amazing news!”

Predictably, Ford hurries over, takes your hand (why is it warm in here suddenly) and tugs you to the main lab table.

“We’ve made an astounding discovery in the forest. I would’ve asked you to come along, but you were asleep—“

Oh, so that’s why you heard someone trip over your backpack in the spare room at 6am.

“— But Fiddleford and I— you’re not gonna believe this— we found these!”

Ford upends a small fabric pouch onto the table to reveal three crystals— decidedly dull from the lack of light shone on them. You go to shine the desk lamp on them but Fiddleford quickly turns the lamp off before you grab it.

“Oh, no, you see— these are _height-altering crystals_. You shine light on them and point the beam at the desired object to change, and it grows or shrinks them according to the facet you illuminate.”

“We’ve already tried the shrinkin’ side.” Fiddleford tosses something at you to catch and when you look into your palm, you find a three-inch tall chair. Staring at the chair, perplexed, you go between Ford and Fiddleford with the same dumbfounded expression that makes the former light up in anticipation.

“But we wanted to test the growing aspect on an— an organic being.”

So… You, you guess, tapping your thumb to your sternum. Ford nods— Fiddleford shrugs behind him, giving a face of “it’s his idea”.

“Would you be up for it? It’s absolutely fine if you’d rather not, I can test it on myself or Stan, or Fi—“

“Nuh-uh.”

“—Well, I’ll find something. I-If you don’t want to, that is.”

Meh, you’re not busy. And experimenting with Ford and Fiddleford is always fun, so why not be the experimented for once?

You agree to the challenge and Ford takes your hand again, pulling you to a large space spread on the floor. He holds your shoulders and adjusts you so your arms stick straight out, perpendicular to your body, and right as he’s checking your pockets for possibly “growth-adverse” objects Stan walks in, quirking a questioning brow at the scene. As Ford gets his equipment ready for the experiment you explain to Stan what’s going on, pointing to the crystals on the table; when he goes to grab one Fiddleford mutters something to him and he snorts, examining one of the crystals with a nudge of Fidds’ arm. You’re not sure what they said, so you turn your attention back to Ford as he pulls a tape measure from his coat pocket.

“To make sure we have an adequate control versus the crystal’s adjustments, I’m going to measure certain parts of you to see what changes. We know your height will adjust, so we won’t base it solely on that; rather, I— we wanted to see how the rest of the body adjusts to the rapid growth.”

You raise a brow, but Ford’s already asking you to take off your coat to measure the circumference of your wrists. As you shrug it off Stan wolf-whistles playfully from across the room; you laugh, whirling your coat around your head and throwing it at him. Ford smiles, but quickly hides it behind focusing on winding the tape measure around your outstretched arm.

He’s delicate; your hand rests in the palm of his as he measures the length from your wrist to your elbow, gently adjusting you to his need as he measures your shoulder width, torso height, waist and hip. Ford only touches you slightly but each fingertip grazed on your skin is soft, almost reverent— you’re not human in his hands, but rather glass. If you weren’t focusing so hard on not blushing as red as you think you are, you’d notice Ford’s fairly pink in the face too.

“Alright, think that’s it.” He scribbles something down on his clipboard and walks back towards Stan and Fiddleford. Picking a larger crystal and affixing it to some sort of stand with wires to hold it in place, he positions it in front of you and turns.

“Ready?”

Ready as you’ll ever be. You wince your eyes shut, but not before catching a glimpse of the large _spotlight_ Ford shines on you.

“Bit overkill, Ford.”

Stan’s voice almost makes you laugh but the sudden sensation of stretching takes over, tugging at every limb and your torso pulls like taffy before suddenly—

“Ford, they’re gonna—“  
**THUNK.**

Your head hits the ceiling. That’s… new. The light shuts off and you open your eyes, finding yourself… A lot larger than you remember. For the first time ever, you look down at Fiddleford, and Ford, and even Stan… as they all look _up_.

“I’m so sorry! The switch didn’t work, I had to unplug it manually!”

You go to speak and find yourself so much louder than you remember— you whisper that it’s alright, even if you feel a bit Alice in Wonderland with the crown of your head brushing the ceiling. Carefully dodging the hanging light, you kneel on the floor and find you’re still at least two feet taller than Ford, who dashes up to you, tape measure in hand.

“I calculated the dimensions of the room before I called you in — it’s a 11 by 15 room.”

“So they’re _eleven feet tall_ right now.”

“Approximately,” Ford answers absent-mindedly, ignoring Stan’s under-his-breath swear as he gapes at you. “We’ll shrink them back down to normal once I get the required proportion measurements.”

And just how is he going to do that now that you’re eleven feet tall, you ask?

“Good point, Stanford,” Fiddleford pipes up. “How exactly will you get those from them with a tape measure that small?”

“He can climb on their legs like a jungle gym,” Stan jokes, and Ford whips around to glare at him before turning back to you, his face a noticeable cherry-red.

“I, uh. Hm, that is a predicament. Certainly puts a spoke in the wheel of _research_.”

You do your best to stifle your laughter at that, covering your mouth with one newly giant hand. Catching sight of Ford’s now tiny tape measure, you volunteer to measure yourself— if someone grows the tape measure to fit. Ford blinks up at you, amazed at your logical idea, and hurries to do so.

He tosses the gigantic tape measure at you and you get to work. Having all three of them watch you measure the same things Ford did feels much weirder now that you’re huge— especially since Ford tries to step in where he can to help, holding it in places you can’t reach (ironically) and measuring your wrists for you. Your hands now dwarf his and you try not to lean too heavily atop his palm— where Ford’s hands covered yours before, you’re fairly certain you could pick him up in one hand now.

“They’re like that “Attack of the Fifty-Foot Person” movie I watched once,” Stan says to Fiddleford, hopping up to sit on the desk.

As Ford’s writing down the newest measurement you take the scruff of his collar and pull, taking him off the ground around a foot and a half high. He’s not weightless, as you expected— but it’s like picking up one of his many boxes of textbooks. Ford yelps and kicks his feet and Stan just about dies laughing, Fiddleford following close behind. You put him back on the floor and he whirls around to give you a look— somewhere between surprise and annoyance.

You couldn’t resist.

Ford’s about to say something in return but when he sees you’re laughing he stops, and his hot flush of embarrassment disappears when he realizes you meant no ill-will. He hides his face behind his clipboard but you can tell he’s smiling.

(Though when he shrinks you back down after documenting the measurements, you could swear you’re two inches shorter than before. The now taller Ford says nothing.)

— — — — —

Ford’s next call comes in a knock on the spare room door, and you say “come in” as he enters anyway. He shuts the door behind him and stands in front of it, deep in thought, as when you ask what’s the matter he startles.

“Oh, yes. I was— I need your help with something else. If you’re not preoccupied.”

You close your book and stand up, asking what he needs as you pull your lab-coat on. Figuring he’d need assistance outside in the woods— that is what he hired you for— you go to grab your shoes when Ford stops you in your tracks.

“It’s not outside, actually. You can— You can help me in here.”

He looks agitated for some reason. For once, he’s alone; no accompanying Fiddleford or Stan makes him seem nervous. If you were proud enough you’d know why, but he’s your boss. Even if in some parallel universe he did—

“There’s a witch who set up in town and reads palms but it seems fairly pointless. C-Can I try yours?”

Your incredulous expression makes him backtrack.

Why on earth was he so interested in _palm-reading_? You say you thought he was disinterested in pseudo-science such as that, but Ford’s answer comes in a series of tells: he looks to the ceiling, crosses his arms, stutters— he’s not sure what his answer is.

“J-Just to see if it’s as ridiculous as I initially thought. I asked the witch about the basics.”

Dubious but intrigued, you agree, and Ford tells you to sit down on the edge of the bed as he pulls up a chair to sit across. You watch him; his hands, usually sturdy, shake as he sits down. He mutters at his palms under his breath, assumedly remembering all the “basics” he’s researched. As he smooths his shirt out and takes a breath you reach out, a hand gentle atop his knee, and you ask if he’s alright.

“Yes! I’m fine, I’m fine. Actually, since your hand’s there… Let’s, uh. Start, shall we?”

He flips your hand palm-up (your dominant hand, apparently, is crucial to this operation) and holds it gently in his as he scrutinizes the lines and furrows in your skin. Tracing along your palm with the tip of his finger, Ford squints and sighs, eventually sitting back up— but your hand still sits on top of his.

“This is ridiculous. How could this— this “science” tell you anything about a person? From what the witch told me, you’re harboring some secret that you don’t dare to tell anyone, and that you don’t like Piña Coladas and getting caught in the rain. Whatever _that_ means.”

While that last bit isn’t even remotely true, the first leaves you with a sinking feeling in your stomach. If Ford knows that much, could he…? Nah. He’s too busy writing something down to notice— you look at his hands, wide palms, six digits, calloused fingertips.

It’s when Ford stares at you in flabbergasted shock that you realize you asked to try reading his palm aloud.

“I— What?”

You take a breath before explaining that maybe you could glean more from his palm than he could yours— perhaps a second opinion could make this “science” a bit more plausible. Maybe. Ford contemplates.

“But I went to the witch about palm-reading inquiries. Do you know anything about it beforehand?”

He coughs.

“Pun not intended.”

You laugh, but he’s got a point. Thankfully you know the names of the three main lines that palm-readers, er, read, but you can make something up along the way. Hopefully.

Ford watches your face; there’s something sweet behind the sunset’s glint in his glasses, almost anticipating your reply. You don’t see that sort of expression often, and the last time you did was when you absolutely _decimated_ a section of his research by scribbling all over his blackboard in a frenzy and turning to him with chalk on your face to accompany your proud grin.

You’d do anything to wring that small, fond smile out of him. Hopefully he couldn’t read _that_ from your palm.

Making up something about how you’ve gotten yours read before so you know the ins and outs, Ford nods and says “I don’t see why not. I don’t know what you could get that I couldn’t, but we’ll have to see.”

You’re taking that as a challenge, you tease, and Ford laughs as you take his hand and start… reading it. Doing by example, you trace the three most defined lines on his palm and think in a panic of what to say… But you know him pretty well, right?

May as well be honest.

You start with his life line, long and curving to the base of his palm. It means, you tell in a quiet voice, that he’s a sturdy force that people count on to stay strong, especially in hard times. He stays silent, but you can tell Ford’s mulling this revelation over. It fits; when something goes wrong in the field, everyone turns to Ford for direction. His chest puffs out a little, he’s sitting up straighter.

Like how when you accidentally turned eleven feet tall, all three of you instinctively looked at Ford for what to do to fix your situation.

Next comes the head line, extending almost all the way to his last finger. He overthinks just about everything, it says (allegedly), mulling things over and _over_ again until reaching a decision. Ford goes to argue but stops in his tracks— he knows you’re right. The amount of times he’s debated something important versus the amount of rash decisions on the fly… they’re fairly equal, in all honesty, but Ford only worries about things that he deems incredibly important.

Like how he wanted to make sure your health was in tip-top condition with his medical exam, checking everything about you he could to double-check.

His heart line… short, almost perfectly straight. Independence is the priority with Ford, whether he realizes it or not— he shows affection through actions rather than words. You know it, but Ford doesn’t; he softens, shoulders slumping and his stern frown disappearing. You tell him you see it with Stan, how you let him stay at his house and always jump to his aid when needed; Fiddleford in how he genuinely cares about his assistant’s family and life, even in his teasing Cubic’s Cube readjustments to make sure Fidds always has a new puzzle to crack.

“What about you?”

Your breath hitches in your throat. You?

Ford’s hand flips around and he tentatively holds yours in his, nervous for your reply, but you hold on just as tight. When you look up, he’s just inches away, having leaned in as you read his palm.

“How do I… show you?”

You see it in how he touches you. How whenever he held your hand or cupped your cheek or even tucked errant hair from your face. He’s afraid of further breaking that bubble you’ve both popped already in shoulder-to-shoulder blackboard debates, grabbing hands as you ran from monsters, exasperated and relieved hugs when you finally crack a hard case.

He treats it not as commonplace, but a privilege, and every time he dares it makes your heart race. Yet you’d never tell him that.

You ask him to show you what _he_ thinks would work in showing you how he feels. Something in your chest feels light and giddy, but another part sinks. You’re co-workers. It’ll be a handshake, a hug, if you’ve played your cards right. So when Ford carefully takes your chin between forefinger and thumb and guides your attention from the spot over his shoulder, you’re not expecting him to kiss you whatsoever.

But he does.

He’s soft, but hesitant. There’s that porcelain treatment again, how his hand squeezes yours but not too tight. You really have to show him you’re not this breakable… even if the attention’s rather nice. Hooking your ankles around the legs of his chair and dragging him forward, you laugh against his muffled “wha“ and reach to the back of his neck, fingers in his messy hair. 

You’ve effectively shown him not to be so careful, and the reward of his arm around your waist is more than enough. Yet he pulls you further still and somehow you slide onto his lap, both of his arms wrapped tight around you as you press against him. (Him being _your boss_ , oh god, how on earth did this happen, not that you’re complaining but–)

Ford pulls away— but not too far, as he rests his forehead against yours while he catches his breath. Once he finds it he looks to you, about to say something, but you both burst into giggles before he gets a word out.

“I never— I never thought that would work.” He cradles your face with both hands and smiles wide. “I never… That witch didn’t slip me a sleeping draft, did she? No, this would never– mmmph.”

He laughs against your “shut up” kiss, working in lieu of saying yes this is really real. You bet he didn’t read that from your palm, you joke, and he snorts, stroking your cheekbone with his thumb.

“With this sort of success, I— I think I’ll need your assistance in my office far more frequently.”

The next day, he calls you in as you’re making breakfast. But this time, you know exactly why he shouts your name.


End file.
